


Haze

by marimoes



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Both are painfully aware of how much the other likes them, Getting Together, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M in later chapters, M/M, Pining but not oblivious, Set before Act 2, just about how they get together for my own enjoyment, spending the night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25334146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marimoes/pseuds/marimoes
Summary: Anders is not a stranger to the haze of emotion that pulls against him each time he heals. It makes things blurry, but powerful. When that haze is laid against Hawke—it's different. Because unlike the others, Hawke isn't afraid. He doesn't cautiously sit and let it wash over him, nor does he recoil.He does as only one person has done before.He pulls Anders closer.
Relationships: Anders & Male Hawke, Anders/Male Hawke
Comments: 34
Kudos: 87





	1. Haze

With hands cold as ice, Anders presses against the sickly skin on the table beneath him. It belongs to a young boy, no more than twelve, and his breath is weak in his chest. Beside them, the boy’s mother waits with a bitten lip and clenched hands. Mothers are special that way. They bend and contort their bodies so their children can even exist in the first place, and then spend the rest of their lives continuing to do it over and over again in worry. 

When a deeper breath draws into the boy’s lungs, Anders nearly has to throw his hand up to stop her. She’s leaning against the edge as close as she can get. Anything to see her son be ok with worry-stricken eyes. 

“Serah,” Anders ushers, tone curt but kind, “I need room. He’ll be alright, I promise.” 

She nods, pulling away a step, and Anders again draws his focus back to the boy. His entire mind wraps around the pulls of pain within him and finds the blockage that wracks the vein in his chest. With a silent word, it’s coaxed apart. He feels it dissolve within his system, and as Anders feels for any more, he hears the mother gasp. 

“He’s fi—” Anders' argument is stolen from his lips as he looks up to her, and realizes her gaze isn’t on her son. It is drawn towards the door of the clinic, and ice instead runs down Anders' spine. 

He almost doesn’t want to look. It could be templar—or bandits, or raiders—it could be any myriad of threat that comes with being held within darktown. Still, the surge to protect fills his chest, and through the blue haze he looks up to find something far worse than anything he worried about prior.

Hawke is leaned against the entrance, hand curled against his waist. Blood weeps from his chest out against the cloth beneath his half-opened armor, and each inhale he takes is likely agony. A weak grin is on his face when his eyes find Anders, but quickly turns to a frown when he sees him pull away from the boy. 

“No! Finish,” Hawke huffs out, teeth gritting in determination. Anders can only watch helplessly as he slowly slides against the door onto the ground. 

It’s fighting everything in him not to lunge across the space of the clinic but knows the hell he would pay in doing so. Magic forces from him into the boy, racing like lightning until the other pieces too dissolve and leave him lighter than before. When he opens his eyes, wide and confused, Anders pulls from him in an instant. 

Where his body leaves, the space is filled by the mother, and Anders knows that for now everything will be alright. With him, at least. Hawke is another matter entirely, as his eyes flutter shut with a jaw that hangs loose weakly breathing in air. 

Anders wants to yell. Every curse ridden sentence he can conjure is stirring in his head like a wasp’s nest, but he can only let it buzz. None of that will help Hawke now. His mouth presses together tightly before his lower lip slips backwards to be bitten. 

“ _Hawke_ ,” Anders whispers, nearly whimpers, when his hands touch the other man’s chest and feels him recoil in pain. 

Healing pulses through him as gently as he can conjure it, sealing the wounds just barely if only to stop the bleeding. He needs Hawke on a table instead of the floor, but when the man is made of mostly muscle, there is no moving him without his help. 

“I need you laid down on a table, but I don’t think I can get you there. I can’t heal you in the doorway… can you move at all?” Anders asks, and the words feel far harsher than he intends. To speak them at all feels like too much, but Hawke nods and pushes at the ground. 

With a steadying arm, Anders guides Hawke up. Usually, his mind would be racing with the proximity of their faces. That the warmth of Hawke’s breath on his cheek alone would send him into a guilt spiral for the rest of the afternoon. But as Hawke thuds against the table, it’s the furthest thing from Anders’ mind. 

Again, a blue haze pulls into Anders’ vision. It’s murky, mixed with Justice and tears as he runs another hand across Hawke’s chest. Seeing the damage clearer now has his stomach torn and twisted into knots. The gashes are long and precise. _Templar_. 

“You fought with templar? Hawke?” Anders asks, expecting no answer. It’s only for his own benefit that the words come out, so that he can try to figure out what happened. And also wonder why Hawke didn’t take him. 

Hawke’s eyes flutter as he struggles to focus on Anders’ face. A slow and pained nod is all he can give before clenching his teeth against the mending that pulls his chest. Warmth spreads through Anders’ body, so hot it almost runs cold, and he feels Justice flare against his mind harder. 

There is a reason that Hawke didn’t take Anders along. Be it that he didn’t intend for this to happen or not, it still makes Anders sick. He’s finding more and more these days that the time he spends away from Hawke is dulled. That the world is gray and all he can do is worry about a man that is elsewhere, if not at his side. 

Trouble rests in that mentality. Guilt too, as things find them on Anders account more often than not, and sometimes what is best for Hawke isn’t what Anders wants. A reality he’s learned to live with more and more since leaving the deep roads two years ago. 

They are what they are: companions. This is a fact, solidified by the bitter disapproval that sits in Anders’ body each time that he thinks of Hawke as more. Justice feels like he’s a deterrent—a distraction—but Anders couldn’t feel more opposite. If anything, Hawke keeps him focused. Not only on his mission, but in every other moment of the last few years. 

As energy threads back into Hawke, Anders hears him groan. It’s foggy from outside his vision, and he has to strain to focus on whether or not words are even being spoken. They are, he finds as he looks at Hawke’s lips, and pushes Justice back to listen. 

“—mere,” Hawke groans, lifting a weak hand up to signal Anders to come closer. 

“Hawke let me finish first. You’re in no state to speak yet,” Anders sighs, fingers curling into the leather of Hawke’s chest. 

“Mmmngh, I didn’t know, promise,” Hawke murmurs and Anders has to force his eyes back onto his chest, “And—”

Anders’ head falls against his chest as he pulls everything he can to his hands. _He knows._ He knows that Hawke didn’t mean to get this bad. He knows that if he thought it was going to be dangerous, he would’ve taken him. Anders knows these things and it’s why his body is shaking right now. Because if Anders knows all of this—what does Hawke know?

Life breathes back in Hawke in a way that finally feels safe. He’ll need rest, for certain, but for now Anders has done everything he can for him. A sensation he wishes would put him at ease. 

“I know you didn’t think that would happen. I know you would’ve waited to take me. I just don’t know how I can bear knowing that things are getting worse, and that—that this can happen.” Shaking hands deliver a stronger message than the words from Anders’ lips and Hawke remains quiet and unmoving during it all. “Maybe, I can teach Merrill some healing magic. In case I’m unable to be there—”

“No,” Hawke says, punctuated by a heavy hand on Anders’ arm, “It’s my fault for leaving you. I didn’t want you to get hurt if the sources were right a-anh—” Hawke cuts off in a hiss as his shoulders lift in pain off the table. His grip tightens around Anders for a moment before continuing, “They’re getting worse. You know it as well as I do, and parading you around only puts you in danger.” 

Anders fights between a laugh and a groan. “Parading me? Hawke, I want to help. I want to be there fighting _with you_.” 

Hawke tugs on Anders’ sleeve to pull him down further, and for a moment Anders thinks he may just tear the sleeve. He bends to rest his elbow against the table, eyes struggling to stay focused on Hawke’s. That bleak nervousness that he usually has to fight has returned again, tangling his stomach back into a different kind of knot. To fall into Hawke right now—Anders can’t say he hasn’t dreamt of it. 

It all plays out, just like this. Hawke wounded and healed by his hands. Flushed lips that part with a thank you before pressing against Anders’, sealing far more than gratitude. He can feel the red climb up his neck and so his eyes dart out into the clinic but are pulled back no more than a moment later with another tug on his sleeve. 

“I _want_ you there fighting with me,” Hawke says, and the pain in his voice does not sound as if it is wound born. Rather that he feels this far deeper than any cut he’s received today. “You’re not just my healer, Anders.” 

“Then what am I?” The words come from Anders without thought as soon as they form in his mind. 

Hawke stills, fingers uncurling slowly before tightening again. The silence can’t last more than seconds, but it feels like hours against Anders’ shoulders. What is he? What are they?

“You’re my friend,” Hawke finally answers. The words are weak, almost like he doesn’t mean them, and Anders controls the swallow that forces down his throat. “You’re also… pressing my bladder.”

Anders jerks his left hand back from where it was in fact pressing down against Hawke’s abdomen. A sigh vibrates across Hawke’s lips, but his grip doesn’t release. He’s still holding on just as tight, and Anders can’t bear to make himself pull away. Maker, if Hawke wouldn’t fuss at him, he would probably keep watch over him until at least tomorrow morning.

“I’m glad. To be your friend, I mean. Not about your bladder. I can’t have you making a mess of my table, can I?” Anders tries to tease, but the words come out barely above a whisper.

“I think it could add some charm. That’s what makes The Hanged Man so nice, isn’t it?” Hawke replies thoughtfully and manages to pull his lips up into a small smile.

“You’re too drunk to notice it there, trust me,” Anders laughs while wrinkling his nose, “When you’re sober like I am, it’s almost unbearable.”

Their noises again soften back to silence before Hawke takes a single wheezing breath in. Anders' hand is pressed against him without a moment of hesitation, curling against the fabric once more. He soothes a bit of dislodged cartilage back into place, and only pulls away when Hawke takes two clear breaths after. 

“Would you—now, don’t argue with me before I can ask,” Anders starts, and Hawke pushes himself weakly up on his elbows.

“Don’t try to predict what I’m going to say before you even get your question out. I happen to be a _very_ reasonable man… on occasion. At least usually with you.”

Anders ignores the last part, forcing himself to ask before he loses his nerve, “Can I stay at the estate tonight? Just to—”

“Of course,” Hawke answers, with what Anders anxiously notes is a severe lack of sarcasm. 

“You didn’t let me explain why!” Anders argues, and presses an annoyed palm against his forehead to try to relieve his building headache. He’s overexerted himself today. Now he has to pay for it.

“Doesn’t matter. You asked if you could do something and I said yes—and clearly you could use some good rest yourself. I don’t think that poor excuse of a mattress up there will get you anywhere near ‘good’,” Hawke pushes further up to sit, leaving him near eye level with Anders. 

The headache is worth it when he looks back into Hawke's eyes. There is conviction in his gaze, held with truth. He wants to care for him just as Anders wants in turn. A hard swallow presses against the back of Anders’ throat and as his Adam’s apple bobs, Hawke hums. 

“Please. We have a guest room filled with nothing but books and the bed mother wanted but didn’t fit in her room. It’s very nice, and if you’re worried, it’s on the other side of mine. So, you can worry yourself thinner over the dull sounds of my snores.”

Anders’ mouth tugs into a frown, hands doing the same anxiously to his robes. “I’m not that thin.” 

Hawke laughs, a little too hard as it draws a gasp of pain but keeps his grin wide on his face. He reaches up, wrapping his hand around Anders’ bicep. When his finger and thumb touch he jerks upwards. 

“I can hold you in one hand,” Hawke argues, “Not to say you aren’t strong, but you are very thin. Let a man buy you dinner that isn’t from a tree you picked while we were on the Sundermount.”

Anders’ eyes widen, and he can feel the taunt trip over his lips before he can stop it, “Dinner _and_ a night at your place? My, my Serah… what _will_ the people think?”

Before Hawke can answer, he slings his legs off the side of the table. His body follows with it, leaving him to wobble before gaining his balance. Anders’ hand is outstretched in reaction, fist empty of the material he hoped to grab. It’s covered by Hawke’s a second later, with fingers pushing it apart to thread his own between. A boyish grin pulls to his eyes, moving his arm to direct Anders around the table next to him. 

“Who cares what they think?” Hawke asks taking a step towards the clinic door, and Anders’ heart leaps with it.


	2. Past Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little clearer for Anders, but that's not always an easy thing.

“I’m going to die.” 

Anders shoots a look over to Hawke, eyes narrowing as a smile creeps up on his face. “You ate too much; you’re not going to die.” 

“I have all these fresh wounds that could burst if I’m not careful! _Someone_ should’ve stopped me, I guess. Or helped. No one in particular, just someone,” Hawke sighs, bumping his shoulder against Anders’. Night has long set over Kirkwall as they walk back to the estate, stomachs full of a well promised meal and now along with the breeze it feels perfect. Perfect enough that earlier today doesn’t even feel like earlier today. “Now, tell me, are you?” 

Anders crosses his arms, tucking his hands to warm them. He knew Hawke would do this—probe him about actually getting a good meal and then likely insisting on doing it more often—so he’ll have to tread carefully. To watch his words around a man like this used to be easier, but lately it gets harder and harder. What a dilemma… _comfort_. 

“Going to die? No, I don’t believe so. Thank you for the dinner, you really didn’t have to do that,” Anders says, hoping that it’s just enough to answer, but realizes it isn’t when a shoulder knocks against his again. “It was good, Hawke! What do you want me to say?” 

A stone is punted from the toe of Hawke’s boot and he groans, “Nothing, I suppose. As long as you’re happy.” 

The words nearly stop Anders in his tracks, causing his feet to stutter as he forces himself to continue. Usually, that phrase is said with sarcasm dripping on every word while Hawke attempts to brush someone off. Whether it be a city official, a templar, hell even Varric at times—but now, now it was genuine. _As long as he’s happy._

Sometimes he wonders just what led him to agreeing to Hawke all those years ago. Past his help with finding Karl, past... 

“Anders?” 

Without realizing it, he’s stopped and a few steps ahead lies Hawke, looking back at him. There is a worry in his eyes and it makes the pit in Anders’ stomach crawl its way to his throat. Maker, he thought he could do this. But he really can’t, can he? He would’ve done it already otherwise. 

“I think you’re alright,” Anders says quietly and the words nearly get lost in the wind. “No need to bother you tonight, just come see me first thing tomorrow morning and I’ll make sure everything is healing ok.” 

Hawke’s brows furrow. “No.” 

“I—what?” Anders almost laughs. Did he really just say ‘no’? 

Hawke takes a step forward, crossing his own arms, not from cold but argument. His leg bends, settling himself into a position that Anders knows all too well. He’s not going to leave anytime soon, that’s for certain, and when he does, he has a feeling it won’t be alone. 

“No. You were adamant about this earlier and now suddenly you’re alright? I’m fine, but you’re obviously not. I didn’t think,” Hawke pauses, mouth pressing together in thought. He’s trying to choose his words carefully, as if he’s diffusing a situation out on the road. “If I made you uncomfortable with dinner I—”

“Maker, no, Hawke.” Anders pulls a hand up to roughly rub his face. This man will certainly be the death of him if he has to keep dancing around like this. It would be easier just to fall, but—

A strong pull of Justice floods his mind, tugging Anders back a physical step. He knows Anders intentions are wavering now, going to the estate. It wouldn’t purely be just to make sure Hawke is alright and both of them know it. Sensation of regret and longing pour across Anders’ shoulders, weighing against him as if he were standing beneath a waterfall. It makes his chest struggle to rise and even more so fall. 

“I promise I won’t do anything if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ll only call you to my room if something really goes wrong and be completely clothed. I’ll wear three layers to bed if that’s what it takes! Maker, that would make using the bathroom in the middle of the night a little difficult though…” Hawke muses, scratching his chin in thought as he glances down at his feet. “Really. Please, come with me? If only to get a good night’s rest. It kills me enough as it is to know where you sleep. Everyone else at least has a room.” 

“I have a room,” Anders counters, only to be met with a questioning eyebrow. “I do! There is a door and everything.” 

Hawke’s hand curls against his bicep, squeezing what argument he likely has on his tongue away. To know he’s considering how to approach this, that he knows how Anders works, it’s comforting. It’s also frightening when he lets them fall to his sides with a sigh. 

“There’s no making you do anything you don’t want to do,” Hawke says and takes a singular step backwards. Anders’ heart leaps forward again, just as it did in the clinic earlier, and he stumbles forward a step. A step that Hawke calculated for, according to the grin on his face. “But you want to. I know you want to, Anders. Just… see how it feels.” 

The desire to question what he means floods first to Anders’ mind, and he knows the thought is not his own. Justice doesn’t tend to understand underlying messages. Sarcasm isn’t his strong suit—he learned the hard way all those years ago—and it appears he doesn’t understand dual meaning either. Hawke wants Anders to see how it feels to be in the same space as him, how it would be to coexist even if they slept in separate rooms. An idea, even potentially, of what being closer would be like. 

His patience is astounding, given how easily he could have already gotten someone else in there. It’s an estate in Hightown for Andraste’s sake. Yet he still keeps chasing Anders. Carefully, so as not to scare him off. 

Isabela did call him a tiger once…

“Fine,” Pressure forces to the forefront of Anders’ mind and he winces, “but you don’t have to wear three layers of clothes.” 

“Two then? As a compromise,” Hawke negotiates and the clear excitement of Anders’ agreement is strong in his tone. 

“Two then.” 

* * *

It’s not as if Anders had never been to the Hawke estate. He stopped by once just a few weeks ago in fact, leaving something in the foyer with Bodahn for Hawke. It was a small basket of potions and things that he was trying out with the clinic, and given the man’s general resistance to everything, he had offered to try them. Still, being there without him felt almost procedural. Like he was removed entirely from the rough edged man he sees otherwise. 

This place, with heavy red curtains and tile floor, was far from what Anders was ever used to even when he had stable housing. Luxury took a fine form within these walls, thanks in kind to Leandra he’s sure, but luxury, nonetheless. 

“Master Hawke, good evening to you,” Bodahn says as they enter, “and Serah Anders! Good to see you well.” 

Anders nods softly, unsure what to reply, and smiles when his eyes meet Sandal’s. Such a clever boy with enchantments, among other things. He would love the chance to observe him if not for how bizarre it would be to ask. How do you go about saying “your son is terrifyingly powerful, why?” without making things awkward?

“Will you be here for the night, Serah?”

Anders looks over to find Hawke shrugging off his outerwear before tossing it up onto the coat rack. His hands are still curled against the edge of his cloak, thumbing the leather anxiously. Will he?

“Yes, Bodahn, he will. I got a little too hurt earlier to escape him, so he’ll be staying in the guest room in case anything worsens overnight,” Hawke explains, walking back to stand next to Anders. His hand reaches out, almost touching the curve of Anders’ lower back before pulling away, but it doesn’t escape Anders’ notice. “Could you do me a favor and start the bath? I’m sure he’d like a nice hot one after everything he’s had to drag me through today.” 

Anders throws a narrowed look to Hawke before saying, “Thank you, Bodahn. Hawke doesn’t deserve you.” 

“He’s right, I don’t,” Hawke replies with a smile and Sandal claps. Shoving a hand into his pocket, he approaches the boy, pulling a small package out to place in his hands. “I found this in Darktown. I think you could mess with it—make it better.”

“Enchantment!” Sandal cheers as he turns the rune blank over in his hands. 

A smile turns on Anders’ lips and affection flutters in his stomach. Whether it is the warmth of the fireplace or otherwise, his face is getting redder by the second, against better judgement. He looks up towards the overlooking balcony where both Hawke’s room is, and his temporary one for the night. For the entire night, with just a single stone wall between them. 

Stone walls, warm hands, hushed voices, and soft kisses. Pressing against the grooves to be closer for just a moment more. Hiding just to live, loving just to survive, it all floods back. Karl’s hands curling on his neck as he breathes him in, his lips tasting like wine they’ve never touched. Trust folded neatly between their chests, pressed into books that shake on unstable shelves next to them. 

A dry throat at the news one morning. Gone. Taken somewhere else. Nothing can be had or held, not without consequence. 

“Hey.” 

Anders blinks, finding his wrist captured by Hawke. He’s not pulling him forward, but rather steadying him. Was he swaying?

“I’ll get the guest room prepared for you, Messere. Sandal, go start the bath, please.” Bodahn walks up the stairs without another glance as Sandal skips up behind him, leaving the two of them alone. 

Hawke doesn’t release his hold, merely shifts it, so that he can stand a little closer. “Are you sure you’re alright? Not just being here—but at all? I’ve never seen you so gone as you’ve been today.” 

A smile paints weakly on Anders’ face in deflection. “You know me, just worrying about a hundred things at once, all with Justice telling me it isn’t enough.” The words sounded lighter in his head. A joke to rival what Hawke throws at him daily was his goal, but instead it came out too serious. Too true. “That bath sounds very nice, though. You should take one as well, carefully, and let me redress your bandages afterwards.” 

Hawke nods. “I’ll let you rinse off first since no layers is a direct opposite of the two that I promised.” 

“I’m _fine_. Hawke, please just… let’s get clean and settled? Today has been so long and the last thing I need is you accidentally tearing open the cut on your rib trying to wash behind your ears,” Anders sighs. “It’s not like I’m unknowing of human anatomy.” Heat races to his ears at the words, but he shakes it off with a quick back and forth of his hand in the air. 

“Oh? Tell me more,” Hawke hums, dropping Anders’ wrist, but not the topic, to step forward. 

Anders’ stomach again leaps up in the way it did earlier today. Flirt sharp on his tongue as he says, “Wouldn’t you rather me show you?”

Hawke’s foot quivers on the step it’s pushing against before he lands. It could just be exhaustion that is making him wobble, but Anders has a suspicion otherwise. One he wants nothing more than to make real even further, digging his hands into the truth about how Hawke actually feels. He knows he cares about him, that’s clear, but how far does it go? How much could he stand?

Sandal pops out of the doorway unceremoniously with a grin wide on his face. “Warm and full!”

“Thank you and good night, Sandal,” Hawke says squeezing the dwarf’s shoulder. “Tell your father goodnight for us too, alright?”

Sandal nods before nearly running back downstairs. Happy barking echoes up through the estate, met with just as eager laughter. 

“They really like it here,” Anders smiles, moving past Hawke to walk into the bathroom. The scent of clean, warm water floats over him and the desire to fall asleep right there comes with it. How long has it been since he’s had a genuine soak? Since the keep, perhaps. “Why wouldn’t they when it’s this nice?”

Hawke blows a huff of dismissive air from his mouth before following in. He shuts the door behind them—slowly, Anders recognizes, to allow time to argue it—and when it clicks, he waits. They’re more alone now than they’ve been in a while and the air is no longer filled with just steam. Enough so that as Anders tugs the last layer off his chest, Hawke quickly diverts his gaze to the ceiling.

“Hawke,” Anders calls as he sinks into the water slowly. A hiss escapes him at the heat, but it slowly melts into a sigh. 

Years feel like they’re melting off him all at once. Layers of dirt and pain all peeling away the lower he sinks until his shoulders kiss the top of the water. Still, Hawke has hesitation in his movements as he begins to undress. Anders pretends he isn’t watching, eyes cast down at the water’s surface, but from it he can still see. Distorted against the soft ripples made by his breathing is the reflection of Hawke. Bandages peeling audibly from his skin to fall onto the floor along with his clothes. 

He’s been in baths with other men before. It’s not like it was uncommon when he was on the road with the others those years ago, nor before that in the circle. Nothing sexual to be gained from being clean and promptly falling asleep. That was years ago though, with different people, in different places. Public places. Not a bathroom that is private and safe from prying ears and eyes. Not with a man who makes Anders’ skin feel like fire. 

The water shifts higher up onto Anders’ nose as Hawke steps in. Enough that he sputters a bit trying to lift up and can feel Hawke stop. 

“It’s not your fault that I suddenly forgot about water displacement,” Anders laughs, still keeping his eyes down for a moment longer. Only when Hawke’s calves knock against his own does he look up. 

Hawke is sat against the opposite wall, arms hung wide over the sides. His chest is still marked with deep red lines—sealed, thankfully, but still deep—and he winces at the water’s contact with them. He’ll need another go of healing if he wants to not scar. Not that Anders is all too certain that Hawke wouldn’t be okay with a nasty chest scar. Would probably think it’s tough or something. 

What would he think of Anders’?

“Comfortable?” Hawke asks the question to Anders, but it feels more like he’s asking himself. 

Anders nods, readjusting to sit higher against his side. Their eyes meet for a moment, begging to draw attention to the situation, but neither speak it. They only soak in silence filled with the occasional soft slosh of water. Soap is handed to Anders at an arm's distance without a word, and he takes it the same. 

It smells like lavender, likely picked from the mountain. “This smells really nice,” Anders comments, pulling the bar against his shoulder. Freckles and thin scars cover the skin, but they nearly feel the same in his eyes now. Marks that come from existing. 

“Merrill made it for me. She’s been experimenting as a new hobby lately and is pretty good at it. I could get you some if you’d like,” Hawke says, tugging up another small bar. He lathers it gently in his hands before pulling it across his chest. Discomfort is clear with the tremor in the water, but any sound that would signal it is held behind his teeth. “This one has lemons in it, I think. Smells nice, but Maker, it burns an open cut. Didn’t think that through, did I?” 

Anders groans, pushing forward to close the gap between them without thought. His hands scoop water to push against the wounds, brows furrowed in concentration. Any thought otherwise is gone from him as his hands start to glow against Hawke’s skin. Usually he asks, or at least looks for a confirmation to start healing if he can, but something about Hawke has never been like that. 

He’s always had that trust since the beginning. A body that leaned into Anders’ touch and knew what he was going to do. Hands that sit steady elsewhere and let him work without clenching into scared fists. There was only one other that did this before—but he’s gone now. 

Skin starts to bridge across a larger wound and the breath Hawke takes in is audible before it chokes out again in a sharp laugh. Anders would love to stop. He would be fine to recoil and settle back against his side of the tub, but now that he’s here he can’t stop. Hawke’s knees are pressed together, nudged to the side while Anders rests leaning just above his heels. The space is less than comfortable and all thought of just how odd their thighs feel touching swirls in Anders’ mind. 

He pushes it away as he falls back into the comfort of his haze. 

“Take a deep breath for me, if you can,” Anders murmurs, eyes focused on Hawke’s chest. He does as asked, breathing in a long slow breath before exhaling. Whatever he had to fix earlier hasn’t loosened again. “Good.” 

“Not going to actually die from eating too much, am I? I thought it was funny, but now you’ve got me a little scared,” Hawke laughs, fingers drumming anxiously against the side of the tub. “Best I’ll get is a nasty scar, right?” 

Ander’s sighs, closing his eyes to concentrate further. “I knew you’d love to get a chest scar; I knew it.” 

“Am I that predictable?” 

“Maybe, or perhaps I just know you that well,” Anders says casually. He wants to cram the words back in not a second later, but when he feels Hawke relax beneath him, he feels himself do the same. “Besides, I have one of my own. They’re not that great.” 

The water sloshes a bit harder and Anders opens his eyes. Hawke has moved his legs tighter to the side, allowing Anders more room to get closer. A silent invitation met with a silent acceptance. Thighs meet hip, but Anders’ hands don’t stray. They stay planted in the center, steadying, and sound. 

“Where?” 

Anders moves his hand lower to reveal the center of his chest. A dull scar sits, kissing the curve of his left pectoral, covered in a soft red fuzz. Again, the water sloshes as Hawke moves his hand from the tub’s edge to reach between his arms. Driven by curiosity, he touches the skin before pulling back. 

“It doesn’t hurt does it?” Hawke whispers, fingers hovering. Anders shakes his head and with the confirmation, the soft padding of Hawke’s fingers return. “Anders… this looks like it was deep.” 

A smile twinges against Anders’ lips before replying, “The sword went straight through me.” 

“How in Andraste’s name are you alive?” The words sound angry coming out of Hawke’s mouth, rather than concerned. Funny how he jumps to that emotion, almost as if he knows for certain it was done by Templar. “I thought they just silenced you, I thought—”

“These were templar, yes, but also wardens,” Anders says, daring to take a look up into Hawke’s eyes. 

A mistake, it seems, when he finds them narrowed and shaking. “What do you mean? Both were there?” 

Hawke is asking a question he knows is incorrect but is begging to be true. Trying to find any reason that the system his sister is currently working in doesn’t hold templar that could harm her. But he does know he’s wrong, and curses when Anders presses his lips into a tight line. 

“Did they join just to find you? Maker, they can’t have risked dying in the joining just to reclaim a single mage. That’s insane, that’s—” 

“That’s exactly what they did. Not just for me, but I was the push. They cornered me after a mission just after I joined with Justice, and when they attacked me everything went white. The sword went straight through, but I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel anything at all as they died in my hands,” Anders murmurs, head bowed with fingers curling on Hawke’s chest. 

This will surely be it. The straw that breaks the illusion Hawke has held of him all this time. Comfort that rested in a trusted hand will now be taken back. Nothing good can be held for long, after all. 

“I’m so glad you lived.” Anders' head jerks up at the relief in Hawke’s voice. His hand is now flat against the scar, and though he is no mage, the pain soothes in Anders’ chest. “I’m so glad you made it here, as awful as it is.” 

Tears try to collect in the corners of his eyes, but he blinks them away with the haze of blue that fades against his hands. Hawke’s chest is much better now, though not quite fixed. The deep gashes are now stripes of pink that kiss his skin, nestled beneath uneven patches of brown hair. He’ll make a full recovery; Anders is certain about it now. 

If he can get him to sleep. 

“Kirkwall has its pleasures,” Anders smiles, leaning back to rest on his heels. 

“Really, now? Is it the dirty alley in Lowtown that does it? Or the dingy one in Darktown? They’re always _so_ hard to compare, you know. Each with their own flare for potential disease,” Hawke says, hand floating in the air before resting his head against it on his knee. 

Happiness bubbles in Anders’ chest like a balloon set to burst. He bared his lowest moment just seconds ago and Hawke is just as he always is: comforting, stupidly deflective, and smiling. Perfect.

“I think,” Anders starts, but swallows before he can continue. A last chance before he shatters any last semblance of a wall between them. “It’s wherever you are.” 

Hawke shifts his legs again to sit on his own knees, making the water rock against the edges. Anders doesn’t watch to see if it spills, for his attention is elsewhere. Completely set on Hawke’s eyes that are lulled with something other than sleep when they stare into his. A wide, boyish grin pulls at the corners, and Anders can nearly hear his heartbeat in his ears as Hawke leans in. 

“Funny—I was going to say the same thing about you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear they'll get their act together next chapter, because if they don't I think I myself will lose it. This has now gone from a 3 chapter fic to 4. So, here's hoping I don't mess up and make it even longer.


	3. Last Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last wall that stands between them starts to crumble.

Butterflies swarm in Anders’ stomach as he pulls on the robes that sat folded for him on the end of his bed. They’re so much softer than anything he’s ever owned, lined with something not quite silk. With clean skin and a cleaner conscience, he eyes the door warily. 

Hawke slipped out of the bath not long after they finished talking. Again, Anders turned away out of respect, or perhaps an attempt at control, until he wrapped a towel around his waist. Even then, seeing him chest bare and healing, it was enough to make him press his knees together tightly. If Hawke knew how easy he got to him, he’d likely never hear the end of it. 

Not that the man would tease him. Not like _that_ anyways, and that’s the real problem. He wants him to tease him that way. To have breath that hovers on his neck as sweat drips from the curve of his cheek onto freckled shoulders. A voice that almost whines for more. The desire to be devoured whole and have nothing remain. 

This is what Anders knows he wants, but cannot have. 

At least not according to the knock of Justice against his head, pulling him back like a dog on a leash. Anders sighs. That’s not a fair comparison in the slightest and he knows it. Justice just wants to protect him and his heart. 

But Hawke could also do that. Hawke could even heal it. 

A soft knock vibrates Anders’ door and around a crooked swallow he manages, “Come in.” 

Hawke dips his head in the small crack, fingers digging in the wood edge. “I just wanted to say goodnight and thank you for everything.” Anders opens his mouth to argue, but is waved off as Hawke steps wholly into the room. “Now, now, I know I paid for dinner and the bath was nice, but you still _saved me_ , Anders. I’m not going to let you sleep without properly thanking you. My organs that are all still in the right place thank you too.” 

Anders rolls his eyes before tucking his hands beneath his arms, folded tight across his chest. Hawke’s robes sit open, leaving his chest to peek out just a touch, and the desire to place a hand against it flits across Anders’ mind. 

“You’re welcome and thank you,” Anders sighs, shaking his head free of the thought. He hesitates on his right foot before taking a step forward. “If it gives you any trouble during the night, come knock. I mean it, Hawke.” 

“Want to give me a final once over before I go to sleep, healer?” Hawke asks. His tone is playful per usual, but there is an edge coloring it that Anders is just as familiar with. Is he… ?

“Hawke,” Anders almost laughs, letting his arms fall back to his sides, “are you _flirting_ with me?” 

A huff blows from Hawke’s lips and it’s now his turn to cross his arms. Still, a grin tugs on his face as he takes another step to close the gap further. He leans, bouncing up on his toes for a second before settling, and says, “Of course.” 

“Of course,” Anders repeats, almost unbelieving if he didn’t hear it come from his own mouth. “I mean, it’s not as if this is the first time you’ve done it, but usually you’re far more direct.” This makes Hawke’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He takes another step forward and Anders mirrors it with one of his own. “Hawke.” 

“Tell me I’m wrong and I won’t take another step. In fact, I’ll take them backwards if you’d like,” Hawke almost whispers, wavering on the foot extended forward. 

A dull thudding pulses in Anders’ ears. It’s heavy, coated in anxiety and excitement mixed together into a sensation he can barely parse. He pushes the haze that looms in the back of his mind and lungs away, begging Justice for just a moment. This has to be all him. All of his words, his actions, his feelings. 

He has to be himself for the first time in years. 

“Forward.” All Anders can do is manage the single word, hoarsely from his lips, and then another, “please.” 

Hawke does just that, rolling his foot to the ground, pushing the other ahead before leaning on it as well. “I don’t want to push, or make you think anything that isn’t the complete truth. I’ve just—I’ve never felt like how I do when I’m around you.” 

Anders’ hand shakes, but he holds it up in the air between them, stepping forward yet another length of the tile that sits patterned beneath them. It’s almost like chess, one space at a time, conquered. 

“And how is that?” Anders asks, voice still a whisper that cuts short when Hawke’s hand meets his. 

Calloused fingers tighten on his hand, pressing into his palm. Hawke tugs on him, forcing the last amount of space to vanish all at once. It is replaced by the very heat Anders has thought of for years. All surrounding heat that makes him want to drown in it without a second thought. 

“Safe? Is that too cheesy? I honestly don’t know another way—” 

Hawke’s words are captured against Anders’ lips as he leans in. There is no jerk of surprise given by the man in his hold, only an easing comfort that leaves his hand to unfurl, nearly falling away between them. Like all the strings that held him back have been cut at once, leaving him to fall. Anders’ stomach feels about the same. The sensation of falling and falling with no clear sense of where the bottom is going to be. Just the sick guilt that’s always lingered being erased by Hawke’s lower lip slipping beneath his own. That’s all it takes for the world to fade away in Anders’ mind. 

There is only warmth, stubble, and the soft smack of lips to color what is left. 

His breath nearly pants out of his mouth when they part and suddenly the hand between them is more for support than anything else. Just as it’s been several times today. A laugh floats from his lips onto Hawke’s, making him laugh as well. 

“I guess cheesy is fine,” Hawke murmurs, pressing another quick kiss before leaning back. 

“Cheesy is _perfect_ ,” Anders sighs in return. He reaches up, gently pushing the edge of Hawke’s collar aside and places his hand against the cusp of his chest. The pads of his fingertips brush against the hard line of Hawke’s collarbone before settling. “You’re perfect.” 

“The scars beneath your hand and the general attitude of half the city would argue with you otherwise,” Hawke says. He places a hand atop Anders’, curling his fingers to thread between. “I don’t want to push my luck even further, but would you join me for the night? Just to sleep! I swear I’m still a gentleman—the two layers of clothes offer still applies as well.” 

Anders laughs, nodding his head. “Again, that won’t be necessary. But this is good, now I can make sure you _actually_ get rest.” 

“You know, now that I think about it—” 

Anders pulls on the collar of Hawke’s robe as he twists to walk backwards. “Now, now, no taking it back. Come on...” 

Stumbling into Hawke’s bedroom, the high of the kiss starts to slip from Anders’ shoulders. Nerves take its place instead, painting a chill down his spine until he’s stopped rigid at the foot of the bed. It’s every bit as luxurious as the rest of the home and only a touch nicer than the one in the room he was supposed to be in. 

For someone with beginnings like Hawke had, Anders can’t imagine all of this comes easily, though welcomed. 

A fireplace crackles on the edge of the room with a lull of heat that even Anders cannot bear to escape. It’s gentle and inviting, leaving him to sway a single step before sinking to sit on the edge of the bed. Hawke follows behind, but falls back against the mattress with a huff.

“I’m exhausted,” Hawke grumbles, swinging his legs against the edge. He turns to look at Anders, smile much smaller this time, but just as boyish. “You know, Bethany used to have sleepovers with the other girls her age. They would lay on her bed and talk and talk into the night. It drove Carver and I crazy with how late they would go, murmuring and whispering about a lot of nothing. But now, having you here… I guess I can see the appeal.” 

Anders lets himself fall back against the bed, propping himself up on his elbow. “Yeah? So, what should we talk about before I make you rest? The new armor that merchant in Hightown received yesterday? Perhaps Varric told you a new tale?” 

“I would rather talk about you, actually. If that’s alright,” Hawke says, tone getting a little too serious before clearing his throat. “I just mean, you were gone several times today. Are you ok?” 

Falling on his back, Anders looks up to the canopy of the bed. A stirring of question tangles in his head, not born of Justice but his own anxiety. To tell him everything that weighs on his mind would take far more than a single night. There is only so much he can hand Hawke before it becomes too much. 

He’s too much, too much, too—

“You don’t have to talk about it, honest. I only wanted to let you know I’m in your corner for much more than kissing you. Not that it isn’t a wonderful perk.”

Hawke’s hand reaches out to brush Anders’ and he allows Hawke’s to thread into it. It pulls his attention back from the ceiling, and makes him refocus his gaze. He lands back into the dark stubble that blankets the curve that meets Hawke’s neck. 

Anders wants to make himself look back up. Back into Hawke’s eyes where he would try to find solace once again, held in the honey that waits to trap him. 

But he can’t. 

His shoulder shifts forward of its own accord, cautious and unsure in direction, and with a head laid against Hawke’s chest, Anders gives his answer. At least he hopes Hawke understands what he’s trying to say but cannot seem to iterate. 

That he finds him safe as well. That being next to him is enough for now. That the future can hold explanations, but tonight holds only each other within arms. 

“I should hope there are other perks as well,” Anders finally murmurs, reaching to thread a hand beneath Hawke’s robes once more. His hand glows, much softer this time, and his own nerves dissolve away into the haze of blue. “I promise I’ll leave it after this, but I have to try.” 

Hawke hums, wrapping an arm around Anders’ back, pulling him closer to him. Sandwiched between the warmth of him, Anders feels like he could nearly combust. All he’s wanted since that night after Karl died was to find a solitude that would even glimpse what they had. To make him feel like sitting still in a place that was trying to kill him, like the circle did those years ago. Karl made it bearable, made him stop escaping. 

Hawke doesn’t glimpse that. He doesn’t make Anders want to sit still and stop escaping. There is energy in his soul that resonates within his own, begging to do _something_. Be someone, help others, make changes rather than run or accept them. 

That might be what scares him more than the idea of loving him. 

Love is heavy in his heart from past scars, but heals gently with each swipe of Hawke’s thumb against his back. The last of the opening in Hawke’s chest closes, leaving only a thin line of scar tissue behind to mark a clean line near parallel with his collar. 

Anders leans forward and presses a kiss where his hand leaves as his mind clears. “There. The best I can do without sleeping, sadly.” 

His head bounces with the chuckle that bubbles from Hawke’s chest. The fingers on his back scratch quickly before pulling away, moving to push Anders up until he’s again sitting next to Hawke on the bed’s edge. 

“You could’ve stopped healing me after the clinic, you know. But I _also know_ you wouldn’t stand for it. If it makes you feel any better, I am properly exhausted now. I do hear a bed works better if you sleep on it with your whole body. Even more so if you get under the covers… could be a rumor though,” Hawke hums, leaning to kiss Anders’ cheek. 

“It’s worth a shot, I suppose,” Anders sighs with a weak grin. 

He lifts to his feet and watches as Hawke holds his gaze as they stand on their opposite sides.

Hawke flips the sheets back with a grand flip of his hand, letting them fall before waving a hand in offer. Anders nods, trying not to laugh before slipping under the covers. The quality is the same as he expected. Cloth that feels like a buttery trap Anders sinks into with ease. 

Sleep nearly takes him all at once if not for the nudge of legs against his own. He turns his head to find Hawke on his own pillow, eyes low battling the same desire. 

“Last call for another layer,” Hawke murmurs, smile quirking up on his lips lazily. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against Anders’, breath warm as it brushes his cheeks. 

“What if I request an even lower number of layers?” Anders asks, voice just as low. The feeling of Hawke’s eyebrows raising move against his skin. “As a host I would only hope you would accommodate the request.” 

Hawke kisses Anders all at once with a determined force that pins him back against the pillow. His fingers curl up into the blonde that breaks across the red of the pillow, trying to correct an impossible task of getting closer. Legs tangle as Hawke leans against him, chest trying to align with chest in a frantic chase. Anders’ hands glide upward, holding tight into the seams of Hawke’s sleeves as he tugs him down. 

It’s not lost on him a moment that Hawke did the same to him earlier today. Back when kissing him was only a dream that had no means of becoming reality. 

They break the kiss unwillingly with eyes that fight to keep the other in their sight. Hawke gives a final kiss, gentle and slow, and time nearly stills between their lips if not for the crackle of fire that sits as a reminder. 

“I love you, Anders,” Hawke whispers with no hint of taunt or nerves. Just open truth breathed against Anders’ skin. “I think I have for a long time.” 

“That makes two of us then,” Anders sighs. “I love you too, Hawke.” 

“You might not in the morning when you smell my breath,” Hawke tsks with a grin, falling back against his pillow, “but we’ll see.” 

Anders turns onto his side, arm tucking beneath his head to settle. He watches as Hawke’s breathing shifts, making his chest rise and fall slower and slower with a soft twitch of his mouth. Though he’s no longer resting there, Hawke’s heat remains on Anders’ skin. It settles into him in a different kind of haze, one that is orange and yellow, and pulls him into sleep. 


	4. Weightless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday's realizations are much heavier in the morning.

Warmth floods Anders’ mind when he wakes. It rests, hooked across his hip in the form of a thigh, tucked against his chest in an arm, breathed against his neck from equally warm lips that kiss the skin that rests there. He did the same, he realizes, for the first time in a very long time. 

He rested. 

He didn’t dream, but he didn’t need to when this waking world feels more like one than his subconscious could’ve ever conjured. 

Given the pace of the chest that presses against his spine, Anders realizes that Hawke is still fast asleep. This is fine, seeing as the light of morning has not yet found them. It exists only in a weak purple that cannot cast shadows against the opposite wall. The day is early and new, just like their relationship.

The thought thrills Anders, rattling his nerves into an almost dizzied state. 

Grounding himself, he pulls at the hand curled into his chest, and places gentle kisses against the ridge of each of Hawke’s knuckles. 

They’re worn, much like the rest of his hands, but made soft by the same harsh use. His own are starting to get the same way, the more he ends up using his staff as a weapon rather than a source of focus. 

“Admiring the merchandise? I don’t mind,” Hawke murmurs against Anders’ neck, making him jump. “Good morning.” 

Anders is glad he’s faced away from him at the moment. Maybe, he can control the blush against his face before turning over. Pulling a hand up to his cheek, the heat radiates off his skin before he can even touch it.  _ Great. _

He relents, shifting around until his nose brushes Hawke’s. 

“Good morning,” Anders answers, smile tugging at his cheeks. Surely he must still be asleep, or under some sort of spell, to be seeing what he does now. 

Hawke’s eyes were lulled with sleep last night, but now when they’re doing the opposite yet the same, they feel different. He feels softer like this, sweeter, and Anders leans in to determine the truth. When their lips meet it’s far more gentle than the first time they kissed, or even the second or third. This time actually feels like they’re trying to figure something out. 

Questions are asked in each slow pop of lips sucking and releasing. They’re answered with low groans, mixed and painted with tongues that cautiously pass through a formerly guarded barrier. 

He is sweeter, Anders decides, drinking Hawke in like wine, savoring each drop before refilling his glass. 

“So, it isn’t a dream,” Hawke murmurs against his lips and then hisses when something rather hard presses into Anders’ hip. “Ah, oops, I guess I’m really  _ up _ , as it were.” 

Anders laughs, rocking his hips forward until he too is nudging the same spot on Hawke’s abdomen. “It comes with the hospitality  _ package _ , I suppose.” 

Hawke laughs a little louder before kissing Anders again. When he settles, hand looped around Anders’ ear, teasing the hair that has been pulled loose, he clears his throat. 

“Again, I say I wouldn’t dare rush you, and I’m perfectly aware this is a natural… morning thing. But, you should also be aware that you do this to me regardless of the hour,” Hawke admits, and Anders can feel him resisting the rock he wants so badly to do. 

“I’m not made of porcelain, Hawke. Nor am I innocent, or even immune to you. I can’t say you haven’t left me like this… several nights—and mornings,” Anders says, eyes trailing off when he finishes. 

An ounce of bravery finds its way into Anders’ hand as he reaches down, grasping Hawke through the thin layer of his shorts. 

“ _ Oh _ , you really mean it, well,” Hawke breathes out, cursing softly before relenting to jutting up into Anders’ hand once. He bites his lips, rocking for a moment, brushing against pitched fabric and Anders’ grasp. “I must also admit you’ve left my mind thinking about how this would be for some time.” 

Anders nudges Hawke back against the bed, tucking into his side while his hand dances upwards. He pushes at the hem of the top of his robes, revealing the small brown thicket that trails down to his goal. When he dips beneath the waist band, no further than just the tip of his fingers, he feels Hawke jerk. 

“You’re going to taunt me aren’t you? All because of some fantasy I had?” Hawke groans, pressing his heels into the bed, trying to force Anders’ hand further down. “Should’ve known.” 

A single laugh blows from Anders’ lips as his hand fully slips beneath the band, trailing further until he grasps what he was after. Hawke again jerks, this time a little harder, and the bed creaks beneath his sliding feet. Slowly, Anders strokes upward. 

Once, twice, before running two fingers beneath, teasing the sensitive skin that rests there. 

“ _ Maker’s breath _ , ok, fine, my mind was never good enough to capture this. I’ll tell you that much.” 

“Oh, really?” Anders sighs, drawing his hand back up. When it leaves Hawke, the groan vibrates his ear. “What else did you imagine?” 

A sharp noise of recognition gasps from Hawke’s mouth before he turns, planting a quick kiss atop Anders’ head before sliding out from beneath him. He lifts up onto his knees, pushing the covers away to rest on his heels before blowing out a hard sigh. That hungry, yet playful grin still sits on his face, teeth biting it back while his eyes graze over Anders’ body quickly. 

“Usually, honestly, I’ve often thought about—how do I phrase this right—swallowing you whole,” Hawke admits, scratching the back of his head with an awkward laugh. 

Fire draws deep, nearly painful lines down Anders’ neck and spine, all colliding in his abdomen. His hands shove into the bed, pushing him up to better meet Hawke’s eyeline. There, his lips smack dryly, words and moisture devoid from his mouth. 

“I-I, uh, Maker, that’s,” Anders stutters, laughter awkwardly following behind, “often what I thought of too, and well, the other way around, of course.” 

“Of course,” Hawke agrees, swallowing softly. His attempt to hide his eager grin is failing by the moment, and he nearly laughs when clicking his tongue. “So, we’re both terribly guilty of fantasy about the other. Good, good. Glad we have that in the open now.” 

Silence passes a little too heavy between them for a moment, but the electricity in the room doesn’t budge. It’s doubled down as Anders starts to push at his waistband, and Hawke sucks in a sharp inhale. Anders can tell he’s trying not to stare too hard, but fails miserably when he springs out into the air, now free of all fabric. 

A quick dart of Hawke’s tongue wets his lip and he leans forward, just a hair before settling back on his heels. 

“Are you waiting for my permission or something? Was three years of lying awake at night imagining it enough?” Anders taunts, running a single stroke of himself up into his hand and feels the bed shift as Hawke falls forward all at once. His hands pin next to Anders’ hips, leaving both him and the wood to groan. “Or rather, you want to hear me say it?” 

Hawke looks up quickly, hair hanging crooked against his forehead, and it shifts when he nods once. “I didn’t know if physical activity was recommended by my doctor, given yesterday’s events. So, if you say it’s alright… ” 

Anders groans, letting his head fall back against his shoulders. “Please, Hawke, just—” 

And he does without another word, as the command falls away from Anders’ mouth regardless, along with his breath. Hawke is warm around him, hungry with his tongue as Anders’ tip rubs easily against the back of his throat. A low hum vibrates from deep in his chest, happy and satisfied. 

His tongue swirls against Anders’ base, lapping gently as his hands press harder into the bed, allowing his body to lower onto Anders’ legs. He’s settling, precise, just as he’s likely imagined several times over. 

Anders’ right hand hovers in the air, clenching and uncertain of where to land. When Hawke pulls up, mouth wrapped tight before popping off a now flushed head, his eyebrows raise in question. 

“You can grab my hair, rather, please grab my hair,” Hawke mumbles against Anders, grinning as he tilts his head forward urging him. 

Anders groans not only from the thought but also the sincerity in Hawke’s voice. His hand does as requested, threading shakily into Hawke’s hair. It’s as warm as the rest of him and if Anders had the right mind to linger on it, he would sink into the way the pads of his fingers feel against his scalp. 

But he can’t focus, not on anything that isn’t breathing when Hawke again sinks back onto him. Thumbs press into Anders’ waist as Hawke centers himself, with nails that gently dig into his sides. Through slitted eyes, fighting to close each time a tongue again laps at his base, Anders can spy the smile that still curls the corners of Hawke’s lips. 

Almost as if he knew to look up, Hawke flits a glance up. When their eyes meet, he slows, purposefully dragging his teeth just so against Anders’ length before placing a single kiss on the small bundle of nerves beneath the head. 

“Like what you see?” He purrs against the skin. 

Anders can only nod, hand loosening before hanging his head back again. A groan whines from his lips, irritated and unsure as words try to conjure in his mouth. 

“Usually when I hear that noise it means there is a spider charging straight at us, so forgive me if I’m confused about its place in bed. Unless—” Hawke whips his head back at the bedroom door before sighing. “Ok, no spider has made it into Hightown, seeking me out as revenge for killing it’s kin.” 

“Maker’s breath, stop talking about spiders when I’m trying to figure out how to even speak,” Anders mutters, earning a pleased hum from Hawke at the admission.

Hawke dips down again at the pause, pulling his cheeks in and Anders’ shoulders shake. He fights to remain on his forearms, eyes winding shut as Hawke continues. It seems, like everything else he’s seen the man run into, that Hawke has taken getting him off before he can speak again as a challenge. 

A challenge he’s more than willing to lose—but to not play back just isn’t like him, and is likely what Hawke expects. 

“H-ha—” Anders breathes, fingers winding into the sheets. The sound huffs across his tongue, again, harder this time. “Haw—”

The sound does just as he anticipated, driving Hawke’s nose into his skin. His hands move from Anders’ hips, down to cup his ass, tugging him upward. Sensation floods Anders’ mind, leaving him to relent to the urge that is more tempting than teasing his partner. He bucks, up in time with Hawke’s motions, lost to chasing the edge he can nearly taste. 

It’s met eagerly with a low groan from Hawke, whose hips now grind against the bed in the same harsh pace. Even through fluttering eyes, the very sight of it drives Anders over, heartbeat heavy in his chest and ears. He gasps as Hawke swallows, sucking every ounce of energy away from him as he continues to grind. 

Kisses are placed through huffs against his abdomen, and Anders’ hand again finds Hawke’s head. His fingers twist, tugging the dark hair and is met with a low moan. 

“Come on,” Anders pants, urging Hawke upwards. 

When he lands within reach, Anders falls back against the bed, dipping his fingers in his mouth before deftly curling around Hawke. He continues to stroke in the quick rhythm that was ground against the sheets, relishing in the moan that soaks into his chest. 

Hawke presses his forehead against Anders’ collarbone, fucking up faster into his hand. His hips stutter as he comes against Anders’ stomach, tongue doing the same while heaving for air. Sweat drips, mixing against the sheen already painting Anders’ skin, leaving them intertwined in ways Anders’ couldn’t have possibly dreamed twenty-four hours ago. 

Rolling off onto his back, Hawke laughs with eyes still wound shut. “Again, I say, my imagination is apparently shit.” 

Anders reaches, dragging a weak finger against his cheek. When Hawke turns to look at him, his eyes pinch shut with dramatic exaggeration before opening again. 

“Just had to reconfirm that this is all real and I haven’t suddenly figured out how to lucid dream,” Hawke says, playfully kissing the pad of Anders’ finger when it reaches his lips. “I knew you were good with your hands but, Maker… ”

“Will you stop? You did most of the work anyways,” Anders sighs pushing the strands of sweat drenched hair away from his forehead. 

“If not for the fact that I would like to further spare the sheets and you, I would be shaking your shoulders in argument right about now,” Hawke huffs. He slides off his side of the bed, steadying himself for a moment on the edge before walking across the room. “Instead, I’m going to get a towel, hopefully without anyone catching me. So, if I don’t make it back—I love you.”

Anders snorts at the drama that drips from Hawke’s tone, but it catches short at the last words. He heard it last night, not that it makes it any easier the second time around. 

Brows furrow in either concern or confusion, Anders can’t quite place which, and Hawke takes a step back towards the bed. A hand is thrown up, shaking dismissively between them as Anders crinkles his nose before smiling.

“I love you too, just know that it hits me like a brick wall every time I hear it.”

Hawke grins, taking the step back towards the door. “You’ll get awfully strong then, love. Seeing as I don’t think I can keep from saying it every time it crosses my mind anymore.”

“Is that a lot?” Anders asks with a laugh, no longer caring about the blush that is without a doubt consuming him whole.

“I think it flits through my head at least once an hour when I’m with you. Something you’ve done or said will just strike me and then, bam, the thought is there—I love you.” 

It’s so brutally honest the way he lays it out in the space between them that Anders can’t help but push himself up to sit. He can’t possibly hear something like that and stay laying down in leisure.

“We’ve been complete idiots,” Anders breathes, again running a hand up and through his hair. It feels like the only thing he  _ can _ hold in place right now. 

Hawke tilts his head in silent debate. “About several things I’m sure, so instead of lingering on it, let’s just move forward.”

“And where are we moving forward to?” Anders asks, forcing power into words that are still barely ghosting his lips.

Turning the handle of the door, Hawke gives a wink before putting a foot out into the hall. He pauses, standing in the in between and seems to consider his words before speaking again.

“Just that. Moving, maybe? You—into here. Not that your ‘room’ behind your clinic isn’t just darling,” Hawke says, fingers gripping the handle both for stability and a little courage. “We can talk about it more—er, later when you’re clean—but I just wanted you to know where my mind is.”

_ Living… here? _

Hawke watches Anders’ face twist in thought and rubs a rough hand against his face. “Please, don’t take it the wrong way, really let me just get you a towel and—”

“I will.”

“What?” This time it’s Hawke’s turn to breathe out his words as he steps fully back into the room. “You will?”

Anders nods, grin pulling wider with each passing moment and Hawke mirrors it back. He waves a hand towards the door, unaimed, flicking his fingers. “Go! Go get a damned towel, so I can pin you in this bed and never let you go.”

The floor squeaks as Hawke launches back through the door into the hall closing the door behind him. Just as Anders falls back onto the bed, it reopens with a hard groan of wood. With clumsy hands, Anders pushes himself back up, grasping the edge of the cover to tug heartedly over himself.

Hawke’s head is poking forward through the crack and he quips, “I love you.” 

There is weight in Anders’ chest and tongue as he bites back the rush of tears that conjure in relief. Blinking them away he shakes his head, mouth sore against his smile before speaking, “I love you too.”

With that, Hawke finally disappears and as Anders falls to stare up at the canopy, he again feels something similar to what sits on him when he heals. This haze doesn’t cloud his vision or pull at his mind. It doesn’t leave him feeling guilt or weighed with the burden of Justice on his shoulders.

He is weightless.

He is home.

He is loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all she wrote! Thanks for reading my little au of how they got together and I hope it left you feeling as warm and sappy about them as I feel. 
> 
> Come talk to me about handers!
> 
> tumblr: @noswordstyle  
> twitter: @fondofthehowes

**Author's Note:**

> Twitter: @__moes__


End file.
